Nomination
by WhiteLadyDragon
Summary: L zeroes in on two potential successors. Pre-Kira. Written for NeverNormallyPerfect.


_**Disclaimer! **_**All fictional entities featured/ mentioned in this segment belong to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. Beyond Birthday and the novel _Death Note: Another Note _belongs to Nisio Isin (whose name, I've just noticed, is a palindrome). **

**Written for NeverNormallyPerfect. Those who have read chapter 109 of the manga and _Another Note _may understand this a bit better. You could consider this a character study of sorts. A sorry attempt at one. **

_**NOMINATION**_

Regardless of their gifts, their intellect, their understanding, he weeded them out one by one. Simply by answering the questions they asked, automatically, like a computer infected with spyware whose purpose it was to probe the database's files. Scan for information regarding the identity of all of these children sitting before him.

The letter "L" they spoke to was the search engine. He was the spyware. They, the unsuspecting databases. The students being groomed to one day replace someone they've never even met face-to-face. Newer versions of him to take over once—should—something happen to the original model.

A girl in pigtails raised her hand and leaned forward, no longer willing to wait for his acknowledgement. Linda. Likeness. The artist in the House. Her memory and attention to detail were impeccable: both important traits in any detective, never mind in L. "Me next, me next! L, it's amazing how you've solved so many cases and helped so many people in a short time compared to long-standing police organizations. It must take a lot of motivation to do as much as you have. How did you cultivate such a strong sense of justice?" she asked, her eyes shining with wide-eyed idealism.

He wrote her off in an instant. She could never make it as L. In fact, she was more likely to become another casualty. Another A. While she possessed admiration for him, she seemed too mentally stable to become another B. As with everyone else, he was straightforward in answering her question—and unbeknownst to her, explaining why she'd never be considered next in line.

"It's not a sense of justice, at all. Solving difficult cases is little more than a hobby of mine. It's similar to how those of you enjoy mysteries and riddles, or winning video games: a way to prolong something I enjoy doing. I only take on cases that pique my interest. It's not justice, at all.

"In fact, if you compared my methods with the current law, I've committed many crimes. And if it means being able to solve a case, I'll use any means necessary. I'm a dishonest, cheating human being who hates to lose."

A body count exceeding ten, or a million or more dollars at stake. A difficulty level of L (aptly named), or personal involvement. These things are markers to indicate a worthy case in his eyes. Diamonds among the coals he sifts through, sifted through even as he spoke to them.

Soon, it wasn't just Linda who was disqualified. One by one, every one of their smiles fell. Every pair of eyes dimmed. They'd heard his words, and yet they couldn't process them. He'd crushed them. He could see this through the web camera. It wouldn't be a stretch to predict that grades would begin to slip as soon as this lecture had been dismissed. Their motivation to do their best, crushed like frail origami figures.

At least, that had been the case for A, before he'd lost his ultimate will to live.

Maybe some of them would consider rebelling against him in the future, and, should they choose to, go up in flames. Like B.

Then he saw them. The two boys in the far back of the room. Separate but equal.

One stood propped up against the wall by the window, clad in black, taking large, ravenous bites from a chocolate bar with his teeth bared. His gaze blue and intense, burning a hole into the monitor that was the window from his world to the House. A lion with a blond mane.

The other huddled in the corner, garbed in all white, surrounded by solved Rubik cubes, his pale nimble fingers working their way through yet another one with mechanical ease. Had he been paying attention until Linda had popped her question, he'd showed no signs of such. Only when he started to answer did the boy pause to grant him a glance. Unlike the first's, his gaze was frosty, steely grey. When the meeting had been dismissed, he sunk back into his own little world of games and puzzles. A ghost in the machine.

He could see them both observing. Calculating. Profiling, probing him perhaps as much as he was, them.

They both had that nasty, unfaltering glint in their eyes.

Somehow, without even so much as looking at their data first, he knew that these two had it.

…

About a week after the "lecture," he decided to visit the House in person, to observe the two more closely. No one knew who he was, naturally; he came under an alias. As the ward of the founder himself. Only Roger, the House's caretaker, had any inkling regarding his true identity, and even then, the old man had just enough audacity to warn him not to drop crumbs everywhere like he always did, and not to toy too much with the students.

Especially Mello. Mello was not to be provoked. No one could stop him once he was.

Although these students were being trained to become him, none of them came without minds of their own. Flaws of their own. Needs of their own. Attempting to raise them to be exact clones of him had been one of the reasons behind the first generation's downfall, resulting in a suicide and a runaway. After such a disaster, some would wonder why Wammy's would continue running at all.

But L was objective. He needed a successor. Even if this was just a hobby, it was a hobby that the world benefited from.

Perhaps if these two had as much potential as he suspected, they would figure out on their own who he was. Neither of them revealed it to anyone else: Mello, because he was fiercely protective of his honors, including that of having spoken—and eaten chocolate with—the legend himself. Near, because it didn't matter to him either way. L was little more than a satellite adrift on the edge of his peripheral vision; he was much more enthralled with the Go game board placed between them. At least, as "enthralled" as he could ever be with anything.

Only during his visit, did he get a glimpse of their possibly fatal flaws.

He didn't look into their records until after his visit. Mello, Mirror, had been brought in from a Catholic orphanage in Moscow; Near, Next, from a series of institutions for "special needs" children in America. Despite being the younger of the two, Near currently had the top scores in the House, although Mello came in at a close second. Always second.

But it didn't take just excellent marks or raw talent to become the next L. What was more important than either was the attitude. The approach.

Both could identify the goal. Neither was afraid to use any means necessary to accomplish that goal. Mello had his hunger for sweets (albeit mostly for chocolate, which he had taken up eating almost religiously since their encounter). Near had his thirst for games. Both of them were prideful, though had different ways of showing it.

But Mello had too much passion. Mello let his emotions rule him, his competitiveness and impulsiveness fueled by a deep-seated inferiority complex. His admiration for L was so great, he had not been shaken by his response to Linda's question. He had seen it as a trick L was using to gauge everyone's reaction, see if they could handle doing his job, one day. He'd seemed quite proud of himself for seeing through it, like this made him that much more worthy.

He could end up as another B.

The only one who could keep him remotely grounded was his roommate, Matt. Match. The master gamer. He had put him down as a maybe, after the two primary candidates. He'd had a console in his hands while he'd spoken to the students of Wammy's, glancing up only to check on Mello, never in his direction. He too had a thirst for games, and a certain degree of apathy about the world, but he lacked that nominating glint in his eyes, with or without his goggles. Matt was more like a Watari for Mello, than anything.

On the other hand, Near had too _little _passion. Near was ruled by stark logic and rationality, a trait that had isolated him from the rest of the class. Unlike Mello, he had no support. Unlike Mello, he was organized, too much so. It would make him predictable, a dangerous trait since enemies could easily exploit it. He could piece a puzzle together, only to push it aside once it appeared completed to him and move on to something new. This would cause him to overlook a hidden abstract piece. He was too complacent, in contrast to Mello's constant insecurity.

In short, neither of them was ready to be considered equal to L, never mind capable of surpassing him. It could take them both years before they were. Mello had his ruthlessness; Near, his detached intellect. Two halves of someone both aspired to surpass, yet barely knew.

To be frank, as bitter of rivals as they were—an obstinate rift that he'd helped to dig between them, as with so many others—perhaps neither of them could ever stand up to L's caliber.

Alone, that is.

…

Letting the records fall in a clutter to the floor, he wondered what the rush was in choosing a successor, anyway. It wasn't as though he was going to die tomorrow or anything along those lines (though he always remained vaguely aware of the looming presence of death in the darkest corner of his mind that was not clouded with delusions of invincibility). He curled in just that much tighter around himself.

This was _his _life, _his _job, all that he had. L hated to share what he had, what he'd made for and of himself. "Sharing" had gotten Alternate in the grave, Backup in a prison cell and deformed inside and out. These two were already well on their unique ways to utter self-destruction: a fiery explosion for Mello, an eternity of cold suspended animation for Near.

No. Choosing his successor could wait, he decided as he reached for a rich, filling cannoli, not caring about the cream or crumbs that marred the file at his feet. It was a worthless case, anyhow.

As far as he was concerned, either had yet to be anywhere _near_ the level at which he could call them equals.

With or without that glint in their eyes.

_**END**_


End file.
